01/30/99: Magic Box Blues

Ten A.M. It's freezing outsize, raining, and I'm on a packed train. I've already been up for four-and-a-half hours already, thanks to jet-lag, and I'm tired as hell. But I could have a bullet in my belly and it couldn't slow me down: I'm on the hunt.

I get like this whenever I go back to Japan. In fact, the minute I step off the plane and into the stale, smoky air of Narita International Airport, I can feel my chest tighten and my breathing quicken. It doubles after I step off the Narita Express train and into Shinjuku Station downtown. I'm finally back again. Too bad I don't usually get in until seven or eight in the evening. Most of the shops are already closed or closing.

The efficient under-seat heaters warm the cabin of the Chuo-line train; as I recline on a seat I was fortunate enough to snatch as I boarded, I almost doze off to the repetitive lull of the train clattering along the tracks. Almost. I snap back into focus as I remember the Magic Box ad in the newest issue of Hobby Japan: there were some serious deals listed in there. Emphasis on were: by the time I managed to get the magazine, several days had elapsed since publication. The die-hards and freaks have already probably picked the shop clean of bargains like toy-hungry pirhana. Whatever the case, I can't let doubt stop me: I'm like a toy-seeking cruise missile that's just been armed and launched. Too late to turn back now, and Alen will kill me if I don't find him the cheap set of Scramble Dash wings I promised him for his Jumbo Great Mazinger.

The train arrives and I stumble bleary-eyed out of the station, winding my way through a labyrinth of streets. Even the semi-suburban areas feel like something out of Blade Runner here, and the glaring neon signboards, diesel-smelling air, and filthy snow packed in the gutters don't help my 'lag-hangover-induced condition. In spite of myself, I look up into the gray sky, raise my fists, and laugh as a grimy rain pelts my face . Fellow pedestrians quickly move to the other side of the street, but I don't care. I'm a block from the store, five thousand miles away from my birthplace, and I've never felt closer to home.

"The store" is something of a misnomer. Magic Box is one of the oldest and largest used-toy stores, and the recent craze for vintage diecast has filled their pockets like never before. In the past few years they've expanded their original humble shop into a gaggle of spin-off stores, subsuming almost the entire block in the process. Tiny shops, aimed at microscopic delineations in an already-narrow hobby, line the side of the road. I pass Paper Star, the poster, menko, and trading-card store. I trudge past Micro, the shop dedicated to gumball-machine and other tiny robot toys. I'm almost waylaid by Seikatsu, some bizzare new Magic-Box formulation with a crudely-mimeographed "Welcome to Toy's Hell" sign hanging in the window. Come to think of it, they ALL had that hanging in their windows. Have to check that out later, but it's an appropriate sentiment for this little journey. Abandon all hope of leaving solvent, ye who enter here. Ah, there's Magic III.

The door-chimes jingle and the two women behind the register look up for a moment, only mildly surprised to see a gaijin face in their store, before they return to meticulously wrapping old chogokin boxes with transparent plastic. How could I forget? Magic Box ONLY hires attractive female clerks, presumably to attract love-starved otaku to the store like bait on a fishing-line. Not to mention quashing any hope of negotiating prices: they're there for window-dressing, not as toy-experts. Nice job. Surrounded by dusty, decaying boxes of character-toys, stifling air, and fanboys a-plenty, this must be akin to serving time on a plane of hell for them. Bad girls in a previous life? We'll never know.

I'm startled out of my reverie by the sharp, acrid aroma that only comes from assembling hundreds of old diecast and vinyl toys together in a cramped space. Hard to breathe, but no matter: the sight before me takes my breath away anyway. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, shelving everywhere -- and on it, pile after pile of carefully arranged toy boxes, nary a space between them. Walls of super-alloy, entire universes of vintage toys. Trying to take it all in, I twirl like a ballerina, transfixed, eyes sparking like a little pixie-girl who's just gotten the pony she's always wanted. Overstimulation. The clerks regard me for a moment and begin whispering. Never mind, I'm in heaven. Or "Toy's Hell," depending on your viewpoint.

Bingo. There's the VF-1J Takatoku I'd been looking for. Not bad for only having been in the store thirty seconds. Bingo, there's the Scrander wings. Woah, a set of all three Diapolon diecasts. And the big score: a Robot Factory Gardian, a Jumbo Machinder Dol, and a pair of Nakajima Jumbos of Tekkaman and Pegas. Talk about a target-rich environment; I'm nearing oversaturation levels here. Microman, Dougram, Gundam...No matter where I turn my vision is filled by vintage toy. Thank God I can still blink. Otherwise I'd be starting to feel like young Alex from A Clockwork Orange.

I silently rifle through the wad of bills in my pocket. Time to bust a move. I flash the ladies my most winning smile.

"I hope you will forgive me for intruding at what appears to be such an inconvenient time," I say in my most polite Japanese. "But if it would not be too much trouble, I should very much appreciate if you would show me several of the items which I have interest in." Blank stare from the ladies. Usually, I have to pry 'em off me after an act like this, but my stalwart little shop-clerks stand all but unmoved. Tough crowd.

Suddenly I get it. They've just finished artfully wrapping each and every piece in the store, and Captain America storms in asking for them to take them out. Maybe it's time for that winning smile again. "I apologize for my persistence in this matter," I add somewhat unhelpfully.

"Don't worry about it. Being persistent is just fine," says one of the women, her downward-averted eyes telling the true story. Or am I just being paranoid? Probably. These multi-cultural exchanges always leave my head spinning. Or it could just be the cheap sake I drank on the plane-ride over here.

Whatever the case, a pile of boxes steadily accumulates on the counter as I check piece after piece. As always, I'm agonizing over "potentials": Tekkaman jumbo, or Pegas? I don't have the money for both. And the Valkyries...

"Sir, were you aware we're having a fifty-percent-off sale today?" asks one of the clerk-clones, startling me out of my reverie.

My jaw dropping, I can only nod to acknowledge her. I'm absolutely dumbfounded. This is all-but unheard of. Wordlessly, uncontrollably, I begin to pile ten-thousand-yen note after ten-thousand-yen note on the counter with a visibly shaking hand. Shaking because of the shock of the discount - or because of the fact that I know this means I'm going to spend double what I initially planned. And here I was, thinking I could quit anytime...

"Ah, which will it be, sir?"

"All," say I with a tone of finality.

Completely unsurprised, one clerk begins counting the mountain of bills piled on the counter as the other stuffs my acquisitions into plastic bags. They're obviously more than familiar with this kind of obsessive, pathologically wallet-draining toy-mania. In fact, the thought of how the hell I'm going to get a pair of two-foot-tall boxed Jumbos back in my suitcase hasn't even entered my discount-addled brain yet. Not to mention the terror of carrying them home on a crush-friendly, crowded train.

My wallet lightened, I bid my disaffected young friends a fond farewell and step outside the musty shop. The rain has stopped, and the sun shines weakly through a rapidly-thinning cloud cover. I fill my lungs with cold Tokyo air. There's no time for worry. It's going to be a good trip.

And this is just the first store of the day.

--M.A.